


The Last Thing

by May_Noble



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 23:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14658285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Noble/pseuds/May_Noble
Summary: Another take on the “Qui-Gon somehow magically survived and appears in the Clone Wars” trope.





	The Last Thing

**Author's Note:**

> My second (unbetaed) attempt at fanfiction, and after editing it obsessively for over a month, I’m just going to dump it and then run in fear.
> 
> It got reeeeaaallly unnecessarily poetic and pretentious at points (e.g. THE VERY BEGINNING), but if you just slog through those bits, you might find a tiny bit of actual fun.

The last thing he remembered was letting out a weak breath as his eyes drifted shut.

The last thing he did was brush a tear from his Padawan’s cheek.

The last thing he said was “Train him.”

The last thing he _tried_ to say was “I’m so proud of you,” but due to the aforementioned breath (though ultimately arguably due to the lightsaber wound in his gut), those five words stayed trapped in his throat.

*          *          *

The first thing he saw when he awoke was a sterile white ceiling.

The first thing he felt was an oxygen mask over his face, followed quickly by a draft of air under the medical shift he was apparently wearing, and the itch of medical cot sheets.

The first thing he heard was a steady, high-pitched monitor beep.

The first thing he said was—well, it was more of a groan than words of any kind.

Qui-Gon Jinn had never been a model patient, and he saw no reason to change now.  As soon as he registered his own consciousness, he tried to sit up.  There wasn’t a Healer in the galaxy that would approve of such an attempt, but he was fueled by a strong sense of urgency.  Somewhere outside this room, there was a battle going on for the future of the Naboo, and stab wound or no, Qui-Gon would do his duty.  So he struggled to a seat, pulled off the oxygen mask, and blinked at the room around him.

It was certainly a medical facility, but somehow, it wasn’t quite what he was expecting.  Almost every part of Theed was carefully crafted to display elegance and nobility; even the hangar bays contained artful, completely useless columns, for Force’s sake.  But the medical facility was absolutely utilitarian.  It appeared to be a private room, containing no other beds.  The walls were bare.  The equipment surrounding Qui-Gon was cold and gleaming, with no concession to comfort or cheer.  And there were no living Healers present—just a medical droid, who suddenly registered Qui-Gon’s consciousness.

“Oh!” it said—an unusual reaction for a medical droid, as they were usually programmed to be calm and soothing.  “You’re awake!”

Qui-Gon quirked an eyebrow at the droid.  His throat was extremely resistant to the idea of speech, but he managed to croak out a few words:  “I am.”

“I need to—proper protocol is to—I should—ah!”  The droid spun in several directions, but finally settled on one and zoomed out of the room.

That, too, was strange for a medical droid, but Qui-Gon had a limited amount of energy, and the oddities of Nubian droids could wait.  He had a much more pressing need:  Investigating the extent of his wound and ascertaining how soon he could hope to stand, in order to go help Obi-Wan and the Queen.  The fleet should have engaged the control ship, but if it had not been destroyed and the droids accordingly deactivated, then both the Gungans and the Naboo would likely be in sore need of his assistance and his lightsaber.  Although speaking of which—where _was_ his lightsaber?  He thought he remembered Obi-Wan pulling it towards himself in the generator room, but surely his Padawan wouldn’t have waltzed off without returning it to its proper owner.

He dismissed the thought from his mind; Obi-Wan would undoubtedly return soon and he could ask him.  In the meantime, he began picking at the front of his thin, white medical tunic.  It only took him a moment to undo the drawstring and part the folds of cloth.

The wound was, frankly, shockingly well-healed.  It was a livid pink color, but it wasn’t even bandaged, and when he brushed his hand tentatively against it, it was tender but felt more like a scar than a wound.  Lightsaber wounds cauterized quickly, but the damage had been incredibly extensive; even in his dazed state he had known that.  In fact, he had thought he was dying.

He had no more time to ruminate on this oddity than he had on the strange droid, though, because at that moment the door slid open, and the droid re-entered, followed by a Weequay.

Here was another incongruity; he would have expected the Healer to be either human or Gungan.  Those were the two species native to Naboo, and in his admittedly short time on the planet, he had not seen much diversity beyond those two species.  But the galaxy was wide, and who was to say an immigrant Healer could not live and work in Theed?  He pushed this third oddity aside for the moment.

Qui-Gon braced himself to be scolded for sitting.  But the Weequay seemed unconcerned, approaching the bed and saying “Ah!  You are awake.  Good, good.  Just in time.”

The whole Hall of Healing seemed to be fond of stating the obvious.  Like before, Qui-Gon said, “Yes, I am.”  His voice cooperated quicker this time, though it was still more of a croak than normal.

_Just in time for what?_ he wondered.

“I am Scoro,” said the Weequay.  “I am very pleased to see you awake.  Yes, very pleased indeed.”

“Not as pleased as I am to _be_ awake,” said Qui-Gon.  His voice smoothed out gradually as he spoke.  “Tell me, Healer Scoro:  Has the fleet engaged the control ship?  What is the status of the Viceroy?”

However, rather than responding, Scoro waved at the droid.  “Check him over, MD-14.  We must get Master Jinn back on his feet as quickly as possible.”

MD-14 started toward Qui-Gon.  He took a careful, deep breath to release his impatience, but his worries clung to him stubbornly.  “Yes, thank you, but in the meantime, I need an update on the situation.  Have the Gungans engaged the droid army?  Where is my Padawan?”

Now Scoro laughed, and Qui-Gon didn’t like the sound at all.

“Yes, yes, I will... _update you on the situation_ soon,” he said.

Qui-Gon didn’t like the sound of that either.

He reached out in the Force to try and sense the Weequay’s intentions—

—but the Force was silent.

Alarmed now, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and tried to sink deeper into the Force.  It remained silent and unresponsive.  It almost felt as though he’d been given an inhibitor....

And just as he thought this, MD-14 inserted a needle into his arm, and though Qui-Gon tried to pull away, he could feel the horrid burn of a Force-suppressing injection.

He was not in a Nubian medical facility.

“Good, good,” said Scoro.  “Relax now; you need to rest and recover.  I will return later, and... report on the situation.”

As the Weequay left the room, Qui-Gon heard the lock engage behind him.

Only the droid was with him now; with no apprentice or youngling present to be corrupted by such language, Qui-Gon let fly a harsh Mandalorian invective.

If this was not a Nubian medical facility, then where was he?  The Zabrak had been cut in two and unceremoniously flung into a melting pit; in the Sith’s absence, it must have been forces of the Trade Federation that had captured him.  But Obi-Wan had been with him when he fell unconscious.  If Qui-Gon was captured, they must have captured Obi-Wan as well (or worse—but he would not allow himself to consider that possibility).

If the Trade Federation’s army had managed to make their way through the palace and capture the two Jedi in the lower levels, the battle must be going very poorly indeed.  What about Anakin?  He had been safely ensconced in a cockpit in the hangar bay above.  How long could he have stayed hidden if the palace was being overrun with droids?  How would he react?  His future Padawan had been very resourceful thus far.  Qui-Gon could only hope he would find a way to stay safe, even in this unfamiliar environment.

Qui-Gon felt a moment’s bitter regret for Anakin’s presence on Naboo.  He should have insisted he be kept safely in the Temple until Qui-Gon’s return—surely he could have bullied the Council into offering the boy shelter for a few days.

But worrying would serve no purpose.  As he always told his Padawan, it was best to focus on the present moment.  Keeping one eye on the medical droid (who, while not armed in a conventional sense, clearly possessed needles loaded with troubling substances), he shifted into a basic meditation posture.  He needed to recover as much strength as possible; even this small amount of movement revealed a shocking stiffness in his muscles.

It was almost enough to make him wonder.  He might have been unconscious a bit longer than he had initially thought.  His wound was much more thoroughly healed than it should be, and the stiffness in his limbs indicated at least a few days’ stasis.  It might have been even longer than he originally thought—perhaps even a few weeks, though the thought was troubling—for this amount of healing to have taken place.

With that alarming thought, Qui-Gon sank into the best meditation he could without the Force.

*          *          *

It was the Weequay’s return that roused him from his meditation.  When he blinked his eyes open, Scoro was standing—far too closely—in front of him.

“Recovering well?” Scoro said, and then, without waiting for an answer, “Good, good.”

Qui-Gon shifted slowly out of his meditation posture, taking stock of his body; his muscles responded with a bit more flexibility (but no more strength) than before.  The scar on his abdomen pulled slightly, but itched rather than paining him.  When he stretched out to the Force, he could feel the suppressant just beginning to wear off slightly—no doubt thanks to the meditation.  He had no control and very little feeling, but a few things crept through his Force-blindness.  He could feel just a touch of the Weequay’s presence in the Force, though he was almost sorry about that.  It was a slimy sensation.

It was incredibly unlikely that Scoro would tell him anything, but there was no harm in a little conversation, so Qui-Gon turned to him.  “Where am I?” he asked.

“Ahhh,” said Scoro, sounding highly amused.  “So you have discovered the truth.  Not on Naboo, no, not on Naboo.”

Qui-Gon kept himself from sighing—barely.  “Indeed not.  Now that we have eliminated one possibility, perhaps you can answer my question.”

“I see where he gets his attitude, now,” said Scoro.  “Learned it from you, no doubt.  Always a smart answer.”

Qui-Gon felt a small pit of anxiety settle in his stomach.  The Weequay could only mean Obi-Wan—his Padawan’s tongue was always sharp, and never more so than in combat.  Steadfastly putting this revelation to the side, he said, “And yet that is still not a location.”

“True, true,” said Scoro.  “But I’m afraid that information is... classified.”

For all his _steadfast_ intentions, Qui-Gon found his patience wearing thin.  He had been stabbed, languished unconscious for days (or even weeks), been kept from his apprentice and his new young charge, and delayed from his duty.  “Damn your classification.  I am a Jedi Knight and an amabassador of the Republic.  If you insist on holding me captive, you will at least do me the courtesy of telling me where I am and who you work for.”

It was an impressive speech, even given without the power of the Force behind it; Qui-Gon had drawn himself up to his not-insignificant full height (as much as possible while seated on a medical cot), squared his shoulders, and spoken in a stern tone.

But Scoro laughed.

“But it’s just so much fun to watch your confusion, Master Jinn,” he said.  “Don’t worry.  Soon you will learn all you wish to know.  But first, we have a visitor on the way.”

The Weequay pulled a control from a pocket and, with the click of a button, the wall opposite Qui-Gon’s bed began to cloud and lighten until it was completely transparent.

“One-way transparisteel,” said Scoro with a nasty grin.  “So you can watch and learn.”

And before Qui-Gon could react (curse his damaged reflexes), Scoro had stalked through the door and activated the lock once more.  This time, though, Qui-Gon could still see him, as he had entered the room that was visible through the transparisteel.  Qui-Gon slid to the foot of the bed, suppressing the grunt that wanted to accompany the effort, and surveyed the new room.  He had no wish to play along with the Weequay’s games, but the more he knew of the situation, the quicker he could find an escape route.

It was a large room, probably primarily storage; there were crates and various other containers scattered haphazardly throughout.  As far as Qui-Gon could tell, there were only three doors:  The one into the medical room, one in the left near corner, and a large one on the far wall.  There were no windows, and though he could see a few ventilation grates, they were all quite small—certainly too small for Qui-Gon to enter, and probably too small for even Obi-Wan.  Anakin could likely manage it, but even supposing he could locate the youngling, the last thing he wanted was to drag him even further into this mess.  But the most alarming thing about the room was its occupants:  Fifteen or twenty figures of various species, all—including Scoro, now that he saw him in this context—pirates.

The pirates stood around the edges of the room, all facing the wide door on the far wall with weapons drawn, and once Qui-Gon noticed this, he could see why:  It was rattling.  He was still far too weak in the Force to sense what was on the other side, but there was a violent series of thumps and clanks followed by several shouts of pain.  After one particularly loud yell, the door shuddered and opened just a crack before freezing in place once more.  Qui-Gon rose almost involuntarily from the bed and went to the transparisteel to get a better look.  He couldn’t see clearly through the crack—just vague impressions of movement and flashes of light.  His nose was practically glued to the window, when suddenly the doors burst in and he reflexively jumped back.  One door was completely bent in and the other was halfway across the room.

A Jedi master came through.

His bright blue blade whirled around him as he backed into the room; on the other side of the door, he was pursued by a phalanx of droids (and that began to answer one of Qui-Gon’s questions: this must be a Trade Federation facility, because he recognized several of the models.  Among other varieties, there were several standard battle droids—though they were falling quickly to the Jedi’s ‘saber—and a droideka that lasted longer.  The man leapt gracefully over several pirates, landed on the droideka, and stabbed it neatly from above).

By this time, the Jedi had made his way to the center of the room; he twirled his blade almost casually behind him, decapitating a large, hulking, neckless droid of a variety Qui-Gon had not seen before, and ducked underneath a blaster shot while sending a strong Force push to take out the last two battle droids.  The only things left in the room now were the Jedi and the pirates that had awaited him.  Sensing this, the Jedi came to a rest.  He did not extinguish his lightsaber, but he stood loosely at attention, his back to Qui-Gon.

“The Negotiator arrives at last,” said Scoro in the sort of pleased sneer only a pirate can manage.

The Jedi turned calmly to face him, and as Scoro was still standing by the door to the medical room, this gave Qui-Gon an excellent view of the newcomer.  He was human, male, probably in his thirties, dressed in traditional Jedi garb (though no robe was in evidence), hair and beard somewhere between red and brown.  This was clearly a Jedi master:  He carried himself (and his lightsaber) with an ease and a confidence that bespoke a great deal of experience.  In fact, Qui-Gon wondered how it was possible that he did not know this master; with such obvious talent and power, he must surely have a storied reputation.  Indeed, something about him rang slightly familiar, so it was possible their paths had crossed at some point, but it must have been a brief meeting, or he would surely remember him vividly.  Qui-Gon tried to stretch out with the Force to get a better sense of the master, but the suppressant disallowed his attempts.

“Your invitation was... irresistable,” said the Jedi in a smooth Coruscanti accent.  His posture was completely steady, his lightsaber unwavering, his expression serious—yet there was a wry humor underlying his voice.

“I know how busy you are these days,” said Scoro, “but I knew you would want what I have.”

_“What I have”.... Me?_ thought Qui-Gon.  He wasn’t sure if he should be glad for the rescue attempt or perturbed at the man carrying it out.  Why would the Council send this stranger?  He must be far from Naboo indeed if they had dispatched a second rescue, rather than relying on his nearly-Knighted Padawan.

“I must say, though, your choice of messenger left something to be desired,” said the Jedi.  “Hondo is not exactly, shall we say, reliable.”

Scoro waved a hand carelessly in the air.  “He always succeeds in the end.”

“Something we have in common, then,” said the Jedi, with that same spark of humor.

Scoro laughed at him.  “So confident, General—so confident.  But you may find I have a few surprises in store for you this time.”

“Something _we_ have in common, then,” replied the Jedi.

“If you imagine that your companion will surprise me, I’m afraid you will be disappointed,” said Scoro.  “You rarely work alone.  We know this.  We are prepared for the Hero With No Fear to arrive.”

Throughout the entire exchange, the pirates ringing the room kept their blasters trained inexorably on the Jedi, who stood in the same loose ready-posture he had adopted before, lightsaber handle still in his hand.  But after Scoro’s last remark, as if on cue, a disturbance in the hallway drew the attention (and the blasters) of the pirates ringing the room.  Through the ravaged doors, Qui-Gon watched as a second Jedi—along with half the ceiling—fell into the hall with two destroyer droids just behind.  This new arrival deflected bolts from one droid with his lightsaber, while giving the other a firm Force shove so it rolled into the room, near the other Jedi.  The first master’s lightsaber sprang to life and in tandem, the two approached their respective opponents and skewered them from above.

The new Jedi stalked through the gaping space that used to be a door and approached the first Jedi, who was casually Force-shoving the remains of the droideka to the side of the room.

“Aw, Master, you didn’t wait for me,” said the new Jedi as he stepped over scraps of battle droids.

“I tried, but you just took so long,” said the first.

Qui-Gon watched the approaching figure with great interest.  He was younger than the first Jedi, and though he used the honorific “Master,” he was certainly no Padawan.  He could not be far into Knighthood, though, as young as he was.  His garb was darker than the traditional sand-colored tunics of the other, and his brown hair was long enough to curl slightly.  All of this, plus the violent scar slashed across his right eye, gave him a dangerous, rakish look.  His walk, and indeed all of his movements, bespoke enormous power, but he spoke to the first Jedi with a casual—almost lighthearted—air that belied his appearance.

He must be nearly agemates with Obi-Wan.  How was it possible that Qui-Gon did not know either of these Jedi?  For a moment he considered the possibility that they were Shadows, but it seemed unlikely.  They didn’t seem to be hiding their identities; the Weequay certainly seemed to know them.

Scoro was speaking, interrupting Qui-Gon’s ruminations and confirming the pirates’ familiarity with the newcomer.  “As I was saying... the Hero With No Fear.”

The younger Jedi rolled his eyes.  “I hate that name.”

“It’s not the worst you’ve been called,” said the elder with a glint in his eye.  “Remember the governor on Pr—”

“Right, well,” said the younger, clearing his throat abruptly.

“As charming as your legendary banter is,” said Scoro, “I hope you don’t mind if we get down to business.”

By this point the two Jedi were standing together in the center of the room.  Their side-by-side position seemed almost casual, but Qui-Gon could see a long, close partnership in their stance, the way they were covering each others’ backs, their easy manner with each other.

“By all means,” the red-haired Jedi was saying.  “You’ve made quite a promise; let’s see what you’ve got.”

Scoro flicked a hand to the side, and two pirates peeled out of the main room and started toward the door to the medical facility.

_I’m obviously what they’ve got,_ thought Qui-Gon with chagrin.  He was grateful for the rescue attempt, but still deeply puzzled at the whole situation, and underneath these two dominant feelings was an undercurrent of worry for the battle on Naboo and a distinct bitterness over needing to be rescued at all.

He shouldn’t have run ahead of Obi-Wan.  He wouldn’t be in this situation if he had stalled and maintained the three-way battle with the Zabrak.

He tried to release his misgivings to the Force, but he couldn’t—after all, he could barely feel its energy.  The worry settled into the pit of his stomach.

The two pirates entered the medical room and flanked him, taking an arm each.  But before they even began to move him toward the door, Scoro waved his hand at them sharply through the transparisteel.

“Ah,” he said.  “It seems our sponsor would like to have a word with you first.”

The two Jedi seemed just as puzzled as Qui-Gon, but on reflection, it did stand to reason that someone was funding this whole debacle.  Qui-Gon was worth very little in ransom, as the Jedi Order was not in the habit of paying for captive Jedi; they would either send a rescue party, if such a venture could be permitted by the political situation (or could go overlooked), or they would expect the captured Jedi to rescue him- or herself.  No, he was not worth anything directly to the pirates; someone else must be paying for them to hold him captive.  And that someone else was clearly approaching the third door now, as Scoro and his compatriots turned their attention in that direction.

The door slid open, and Qui-Gon would have reeled if he were not being held firmly upright by the two pirates.

It was the Zabrak.

How was it possible?  Qui-Gon was certain he had seen Obi-Wan cleave the bastard in two with his lightsaber.  Yes, he had been bleeding out on the floor, barely conscious, but he would never be so incoherent that he could not recognize such a heroic action on the part of his Padawan.  But here the Sith stood, seemingly in one piece, scowling at the two Jedi and positively dripping with malevolence and Darkness.

He was certain it was the same person.  He would never forget that awful visage.

Somehow, through the haze of horrified recognition and—since he still could not connect to the Force and release it—fear, Qui-Gon was also aware of the two Jedi through the transparisteel.  Neither one had transitioned fully into an attack stance, but at the same time, the easy, loose confidence had completely transformed.  They might have treated the gang of pirates like a fun day out, but the room was completely saturated with tension now.  They clearly knew that this was a Sith.  From the dark expressions on their faces, they knew _exactly_ who it was.

For just a moment, Qui-Gon thought he sensed something—not precisely through the Force, but over his bond with Obi-Wan, which had been dead to him since he awoke.  He assumed it was simply a result of the suppressant.  Now, as he felt a twinge of a strong but distant emotion (some combination of anger, horror, determination, and dull grief), he thought he almost sensed some damage to the bond beyond simple suppression.  But the suppressant did its work, and the sensation faded before he could chase it down.

All the same, Qui-Gon took heart.  Obi-Wan couldn’t be too far away if he could feel something over the suppressed bond.  And while it had been a strong cocktail of negative emotions, he had sensed no physical pain from his apprentice.

The younger Jedi recovered first from his shock.  “Maul,” he said.  The venom in his voice was unmistakeable—Qui-Gon was almost taken aback at the strength of it.  It went rather beyond the prescribed Jedi calm.  When facing a Sith, though, Qui-Gon felt a strong reaction was understandable.  “You won’t get away this time.”

The Zabrak came further into the room and began to stalk around the two Jedi in a wide circle.  _Stalking_ was the only apt description for his slinking walk and predatory gaze.  He seemed focused primarily on the older Jedi.  “Only one of us will escape this encounter alive, _Jedi_ , and it won’t be you.”

The two Jedi were back-to-back now, ‘saber hilts in hand, watching the Sith’s progress.  As the Zabrak—Maul?—circled in front of the elder of the two, that Jedi spoke.  “Your ruse was unnecessary, Darth.  We would have come for _you_ , even without the promise of a captive Jedi.”

Underneath the carefully controlled exterior, Qui-Gon could see the Jedi master’s tension, though he wasn’t quite sure how he recognized it.  While the younger Jedi’s anger was saturated in his expression and his voice, the elder gave every indication of maintaining his calm.  Yet somehow Qui-Gon was certain that this serenity was illusion, though he still couldn’t grasp the Force.

“Ah, but I _do_ have a captive Jedi,” replied the Zabrak, now circling around the younger Jedi’s side.  “I have held him for many years, waiting for this moment to arrive.”

Qui-Gon blinked.  _Many years?_   Perhaps he was mistaken—perhaps they were not referring to him.

“First he was in stasis, and then I was... otherwise occupied.  But at last the time has come for me to take my revenge.”

He stopped circling and faced the older Jedi fully.  The pirates around the room were completely still and silent, keeping their blasters aimed unwaveringly at the pair of Jedi.

The bearded master set his jaw.  “This is between you and me, Maul.  If you wish to try to take your revenge, take it directly.  There’s no need to involve others.”

“I already know you can withstand torture,” said Maul darkly.  “I’ve had a very enlightening conversation with Ventress.”

The younger Jedi actually hissed.

“No, I am familiar with your noble Jedi sensibilities,” the Zabrak continued, spitting the phrase out with disgust.  “I know the way to hurt you is by hurting those you care about.”

“Sure,” said the younger Jedi with a bitter laugh.  “Good luck with that.”

“If you think you can hurt Anakin...” began the elder.

Qui-Gon startled, and his head jerked back and hit one of the pirates holding him.  The pirate jabbed an elbow into his side, and he doubled over in pain.  He might have recovered from this blow quicker if his mind hadn’t been reeling.  This Jedi knew Anakin.  This Jedi apparently knew Anakin well enough to  _care_ about him.  Qui-Gon wished the suppressant and the other medications would exit his systems—he needed a clear head....  He was definitely missing something, but he couldn’t think straight....

When he raised his head again, Darth Maul was laughing.  It was a very disturbing sound.

“Oh, don’t worry, I will hurt Skywalker eventually—and then I will kill him, just as I will eventually kill _you_ , Kenobi.  But first I will take my rightful due.”  He took a few menacing steps towards the elder Jedi.  “You took my legs.  You robbed me of years of my life, and of my rightful place by my master’s side.  _I will have my revenge._ ”

_Kenobi._

The final piece slotted into place, and Qui-Gon fell into a spiral of realizations and horrible understanding.

He was not on Naboo.

He had been taken captive by the Trade Federation and the Sith.

It had been more than a few weeks—he really had been in a stasis for “many years.”

The Jedi in front of him, the master with such elegance and control... _that was Obi-Wan._

He had lost _years._

He was hyperventilating.

His captors did not allow him to recover on his own time.  He felt a sharp prod in his side—the same side as before, damn them—and he was pulled roughly back to a standing position.

He had clearly missed some words exchanged between the Jedi and the Sith, but nothing else had changed.  They were in the same positions as before.  Obi-Wan— _that was Obi-Wan_ —was speaking:

“...release your captive in exchange.”

Maul’s grin was a caricature of bared teeth.  “An attempt at negotiation, Master Kenobi—very good.  I would expect no less from you.  And yet I find myself disinclined to make a counteroffer, particularly since I know you are not serious in your offer.”

“I assure you,” said Obi-Wan, “I am perfectly serious.”

“ _You are stalling!_ ”  Maul threw out a hand with this outburst and there was a shower of sparks along one wall as a panel imploded.  Qui-Gon had to suppress a jerk of surprise, though Obi-Wan and the other Jedi did not move a muscle, undoubtedly sensing through the Force that Maul’s destructive intention was relatively benign.  “Your troops are on the way, and you want to delay until they arrive.  But you will soon change your mind, when you see my captive.  You will surrender to me willingly.”

Qui-Gon suddenly realized that, horrifyingly, that might be true.  Obi-Wan had had a disturbing self-sacrificing streak since the beginning.  If he knew his Master was here, he really might surrender himself to the Sith.  Qui-Gon pulled against his captors’ grip, leaning toward the transparisteel as far as he could, boring his eyes into his Padawan, trying desperately to reach through the inhibitor to access their bond, to tell him _Go! Leave me!_

Obi-Wan’s eyes abruptly turned to the medical facility wall, darted here and there—fell directly on Qui-Gon’s face for one heart-stopping moment.  But the moment was brief; the wall remained opaque on Obi-Wan’s side, and the Force refused to respond to Qui-Gon’s desperate attempts.  He could not reach the bond.

The younger Jedi, meanwhile, had reached the end of his (apparently short) patience.  “It doesn’t matter if you know they’re coming,” he snapped.  “The 501st will still wipe this place off the map, and you with it.”

“Anakin,” said Obi-Wan wearily.

It took a monumental effort not to collapse back into hyperventilation.  The younger Jedi was Anakin Skywalker.  The nine-year-old boy Qui-Gon had met just a few days ago had grown up, had grown into his strength, had become one of the most powerful—albeit also the most impulsive—Jedi Qui-Gon had ever seen.  Even without the benefit of the Force, he could see the potency in every inch of Anakin’s body, in the way he had moved and fought earlier.

“If you do have a Jedi hostage,” Obi-Wan was saying, “article 645 of the Genavian Convention demands that prisoners of war be disclosed on request.  You must bring them forward.”

Scoro, who had been surveying the entire conversation with a mixture of wariness and amusement, burst into laughter.  “Ah, yes, the Genavian Convention—I was doing a little light reading from article 700 only last week.  We follow it religiously, don’t we, boys?”

The pirates around the room laughed obligingly with him.

Anakin made a face at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan shrugged ruefully.  “It was worth a try.”

Maul bared his teeth in a mockery of a grin again.  “Even if we followed the protocols of the convention—and I assure you, I do not—I have had this hostage for eleven years, since long before the war began.  He is not a prisoner of war; the protocols do not apply to him.  And yet... I find I am ready for the next stage.”  He gestured toward Scoro.  “Bring him out.”

Scoro gestured toward the transparisteel wall.  “Bring him out!”

The pirates wrenched on Qui-Gon’s arms and began to turn him toward the door.  He was under no delusions; he knew he was essentially helpless.  His injury was tender, his muscles were weak and unresponsive, and he could barely touch the Force (and even that faint touch was haphazard).  Despite all this, he couldn’t quite stop himself from resisting.  He threw his head back sharply, catching one pirate in the nose, who cried out in pain and anger; but before he could strike out at the other one, he found his arms twisted firmly behind him, and a knee settled in his gut.  His (apparently years-old) injury flared up in pain, and he collapsed in on himself and stopped struggling.

The pirates dragged him toward the door, jabbed the controls to open it, shoved him roughly through, and struck him on the back so he fell instantly to his knees, his chin on his chest, his hair falling across his face.

Even through the pain of his abdomen, his arms, his back, and now his knees, he managed to raise his head—both in defiance and from a strong desire to meet Obi-Wan and Anakin’s eyes.

Surprisingly, what radiated off of Anakin was anger, and it was a powerful force indeed.  The young man’s ire was partly on Maul, of course, but no small amount of it was focused on Qui-Gon.  “What lie is this?!” he growled, stepping in front of Obi-Wan, igniting his lightsaber and swinging it toward Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan had maintained the composure of a consummate Jedi master throughout the entire conflict thus far, but his façade finally cracked.  His expression was horribly slack; his grip on his lightsaber hilt was loose; and his left fist came to his mouth.  He said nothing, though whether that was a function of patience or shock Qui-Gon could not say.

He could hardly blame him.  After all, Qui-Gon could not speak, either.

They stared at each other wordlessly.

“Ah, how long I have waited to see this,” said Maul, interrupting the tableau.  “You see the power I hold over you now, Kenobi.  Your old Master—not as dead as you thought.”

“You think you can fool us?” snapped Anakin, wheeling on the Zabrak.  “You think we’ve never seen a clone before?”

“You think he’s a clone?” said Scoro.  “Boys—show ‘em.”

Before Qui-Gon could react (and oh, how he wished to have his Force reflexes back), the pirates flanking him had pulled his medical tunic up to display the livid pink scar on his abdomen.

Anakin drew in a shocked breath.  Obi-Wan didn’t seem to be breathing at all.

“So, what, you found some DNA, cloned him, aged him as fast as you could, and then stabbed him in the stomach?” Anakin snarled.  “All so that, what, you could mess with my Master’s head?  That’s sad, Maul—pathetic.”

“Anakin,” said Obi-Wan, putting his hand on the younger Jedi’s shoulder.  He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Qui-Gon.

Anakin whirled on Obi-Wan, dislodging the calming hand.  “You can’t believe this!  It’s a clone, or a disguise.”

Obi-Wan pulled his gaze from Qui-Gon with what looked like a struggle.  He locked eyes with Anakin for a moment.  “I know it’s not possible,” he said quietly.  “I know, Anakin.”

Then he rounded on Maul.

“What do you want?”

Maul’s rictus of a grin widened.  “I want _this_.  I want your pain.”  Slowly, he began to move, circling them again.  “I want you to watch while I hurt your dear old master.  I want you to watch while I hurt your precious protegé.  I want you to watch while I kill them, slowly, and bring them back to life, and kill them slowly again.  I want you to be in every kind of agony—I want you to feel their pain, and I want them to feel your pain, until every part of you is burning from the inside out.  I want you to pay for what you did to me, and I want you to pay _slowly_.”

He had made a complete circuit and was face-to-face with Obi-Wan, nearly touching horn-to-forehead.

But far from cowing his old apprentice, this speech somehow seemed to have settled Obi-Wan’s nerves.  He had recovered from his initial shock at seeing Qui-Gon.  Whether he believed this was truly his old Master or not, he had come to temporary terms with the revelation, and now his jaw was set in determination.  Was that even a small twinkle in his eye?  He looked straight into Maul’s yellow gaze and said, “Oh—is that all?”

Anakin let out a snort of disbelief.  Maul, though, unamused, spun on his heel and slashed his hands through the air, scattering crates and smashing several containers against one wall with a guttural yell.  Qui-Gon managed to keep his flinch to a minimum.

“Maybe cut back on the sass, Obi-Wan,” said Anakin in a low voice.

But Obi-Wan’s focus remained firmly on the Sith.  “No, Darth, that’s _not_ what you want,” he said calmly.  When Maul turned back toward the Jedi, Obi-Wan took a step toward him, ‘saber still unlit.  “You want to prove you’re better than me.”

Maul stepped toward Obi-Wan, baring his teeth and growling lowly but otherwise unresponding.

A small, almost feral smile slipped onto Obi-Wan’s face.  “I beat you.  I was just a Padawan, but I won, and you lost everything.”  He took another step forward.

Qui-Gon watched with his heart in his mouth.  His apprentice had always been a master of taunting, and he certainly had all of Maul’s attention now.

“You want to prove yourself?”  Obi-Wan’s voice was rising.  “Do it!”

Maul growled louder.

“But you fight me like you did then.  One-on-one.  Man-to-man.”  Obi-Wan took one last step forward and settled into an aggressive stance.  “Jedi to Sith.” He ignited his lightsaber, and his challenging stare was bathed in its bright glow.

Maul pulled his lightsaber from his belt and held it horizontally in front of him.  Qui-Gon felt a chill go down his spine as he watched history rhyme.  The Zabrak ignited one end of the lightstaff, then the other.

Anakin was no more happy than Qui-Gon.  “Master,” he said, quietly but urgently trying to draw Obi-Wan’s attention.  “This is a trap!”

Obi-Wan, who had been seconds away from engaging with the Sith, turned to his old Padawan—Anakin Skywalker, impossibly tall and impossibly powerful.  Obi-Wan’s eyebrows were nearly at his hairline.  “Well, of course,” he said in an incredulous tone.  “Obviously it’s a trap.  So...?”

Anakin tried to hold out, but he couldn’t—he deflated under Obi-Wan’s gaze.  “Spring the trap,” he mumbled, so quietly Qui-Gon almost couldn’t hear him, and then, louder: “I hate it when you’re right.”

“What a constantly miserable life you must lead, then,” said Obi-Wan.

And suddenly, with a leap and a violent, noisy clash of lightsabers, the fight was on.

If his heart hadn’t been in his throat (he still couldn’t touch the Force to attain a Masterly calm), Qui-Gon might have appreciated the fight as a thing of beauty.  A well-fought lightsaber duel was an artform to a trained Jedi, though they were usually just fought between two Jedi for training purposes.  And before him were two masters of the art.  Maul, as Qui-Gon had experienced only yesterday (or so it felt to him), was a skilled aggressor.  He was relentless in his strikes, using both sides of his staff to maintain a constant attack; he pushed inexorably forward, but then he would leap over or around Obi-Wan and press in a different direction, which meant the fight stayed mostly in the center of the room.

The pirates, of course, were not trained Jedi, and to them the duel was less of an artform and more of a whirlwind of death and destruction.  Qui-Gon was vaguely aware of Scoro’s frantic motions to his men, trying to keep them still and make them remain in place around the room.  Anakin, half in deference to Obi-Wan’s one-on-one agreement and half as a fail-safe should the duel go wrong, had edged toward Scoro, though he was not taking his eyes off the combatants.

And Obi-Wan—ah, Obi-Wan was a Master indeed.  Maul was relentless and aggressive, but Obi-Wan was an impenetrable, tireless wall of blocks and counterstrikes.  Qui-Gon had spent twelve years training him in Form IV, Ataru, an acrobatic form filled with leaps, flips, and spins.  He had always been a promising swordsman and he had seemed perfectly suited to the athleticism of Ataru.  But though he was responding easily to Maul’s Ataru-like jumps (clearly still familiar with the style), his stance, his grip, and his concentration were all Soresu—Form III, a form of defense and serenity.  And Obi-Wan was astonishingly calm; as a Padawan (yesterday? eleven years ago?) he had fought with fire and passion, and while Qui-Gon could see these tenets underpinning his former apprentice, now his posture, his face, and his movements were filled with determination, focus, and strength of will.

Qui-Gon couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

Unfortunately, his absorption came at a cost, because his reflexes were still shockingly limited.  His awe of the fight, the pain of his injuries, and his fear for his two boys had consumed all of his attention, and he had very little Force-awareness to connect him with his surroundings, so he was caught completely off guard when Maul threw out a hand and hurled a storage container—not at Obi-Wan, but at Qui-Gon.  Obi-Wan, sunk deep in the Force, responded immediately by throwing out his own hand and pushing the debris off its course.  It fell harmlessly against the wall.

But Maul was undaunted by his lack of success.  Again and again he used the Force to throw detritus in Qui-Gon’s direction.  The whole time, he maintained his ferocious onslaught against Obi-Wan.  Qui-Gon struggled to reach the Force, hating his helplessness, but he couldn’t manage more than a small nudge against the projectiles.  He began to thrash in his captors’ hold, hoping to break free and take shelter.  Obi-Wan was responding as best as he could, but it is far easier to create destruction than to avert it, and Qui-Gon feared that protecting him would prove to be a deadly distraction.

Two things happened in quick succession to alter the tenor of the conflict.  First, one of Maul’s projectiles was knocked off-course directly into one of the pirates holding Qui-Gon in place.  The Weequay collapsed instantly, and before the other one could react, before any of the others could step in, Anakin was there.  He grabbed the second pirate in a headlock, gave a sharp twist, and dropped him on the floor.  The next thing Qui-Gon knew, he was being helped to his feet.  Anakin was clearly still torn between protecting him from Scoro (and from Maul’s continued barrage) and threatening him himself, but a firm grip on Qui-Gon’s upper arm and a lightsaber held between Qui-Gon and the pirates served both purposes.

The second thing that changed the fight was the sudden, clamorous invasion of an entire battalion of white-armor-clad soldiers.

Distantly, Qui-Gon knew they were with Obi-Wan and Anakin.  Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he had registered Scoro addressing Obi-Wan as “General,” Maul’s anticipation of their “troops,” and Anakin’s declaration about “the 501st.”  However, he was also at a severe disadvantage.  He had been unconscious for eleven years.  He was heavily medicated.  He had a half-healed wound in his gut.  He had just spent the past few minutes in a state of constant anxiety for his Padawan in a furious duel with _a Sith._   And he still could not reach the source of his strength and calm, that power that gave him endurance and capacity beyond any normal human—the Force.  In short, he found himself utterly overwhelmed.

He watched with a sort of detachment as a firefight broke out between the pirates and the newly-arrived troops.  He dimly heard Anakin shouting orders at the soldiers.  He observed Scoro gather several nearby pirates and make a haphazard attempt to snatch Qui-Gon from Anakin’s protective custody, only to give up seconds later when two of the white-clad soldiers set up a volley of cover fire and Anakin sliced off one of their arms, sending the arm and the wicked-looking knife it had been holding to the floor.  Faced with an untenable situation, anticipating their inevitable defeat, the pirates made cowardice the better part of valor and beat a frantic retreat toward the small door in the corner.

He also saw, in the middle of the room, seemingly untouched by any of the chaos around them, Darth Maul and Obi-Wan in a small bubble of chaos of their own making.  The pace of their strikes seemed to have picked up, if that were possible.  Obi-Wan was on the offense now, raining blows on the Zabrak at such a speed that his lightsaber was just a blur.

He watched as Maul saw the deterioration of his position and the abandonment of his allies and a terrible fury settled over his face.  The Sith leapt back a few feet from Obi-Wan, disengaging their blades, and put his entire focus into lifting every crate, every shard of wreckage, every loose object that lay scattered about the room.  With one ferocious push, he sent it all hurling towards Qui-Gon.

“NO!”

Obi-Wan’s cry was not desperation.  It wasn’t even denial or disbelief.  It was, quite simply, determination.  He thrust both hands toward Qui-Gon—his ‘saber dropping to the ground uselessly—and _shoved_ with every ounce of power at his disposal.  Qui-Gon felt a wave of sheer Force energy wash above him, and watched as debris flew to the side, safely over where he lay—

But then a sharp pain bloomed in his right shoulder.

He looked down.  The pirate’s abandoned knife was embedded to the hilt just under his clavicle.

He realized suddenly that he was lying on the floor.  It was cold and hard beneath his back.  It felt familiar for some reason...

Theed.  The generator room.  That’s why it felt familiar.

No, wait—he was _in_ the generator room, wasn’t he?  Or—no, he had woken on some other planet.  That’s right:  Obi-Wan and Anakin were there, they were older... much older....

That must have been a hallucination.  It didn’t sound plausible.

He felt dizzy.

He opened his eyes, and only then realized they had been closed.

Someone was holding him.  Someone was cradling his head to their chest.

He thought he was bleeding, but when he opened his eyes—when had they closed _again?_ —it was just someone’s tears on his face.  His tears?  Maybe his.  Or Obi-Wan’s?

It was Obi-Wan who was holding him.

Yes, that was right—he was on Theed, and he had told Obi-Wan to train the boy.

The last thing he heard was Anakin’s shuddering breaths.  That was odd, because he should be upstairs hiding in the cockpit.

The last thing he did was reach up to touch his Padawan’s cheek—though the texture was odd, and he frowned weakly at the strange sensation.

The last thing he tried to say was “I’m so proud of you,” but his breath didn’t quite cooperate, and he could only manage the first few words.

The last thing he remembered was letting out a weak breath as his eyes drifted shut.

*          *          *

The first thing he saw when he awoke was a sterile white ceiling.

The first thing he heard was a steady, high-pitched monitor beep.

The first thing he felt was— _the Force._

Oh, what a beautiful sensation.  He let it wash over him, swam in its depths, watched the eddies swirl around him, felt it all around him and inside him.

He was dimly aware that his surprise was strange.  Why should feeling the Force be unexpected?  He had one of the strongest known connections to the Living Force; he had felt its energy since birth, long before his conscious memories began.  He was a Jedi.  It should not be remarkable.

Before he could puzzle this out, a head appeared above his bed, looking down with a smile.  It took Qui-Gon a moment to place the familiar face, but more than anything, the Force presence gave it away.  Even as a boy, Anakin had had the most remarkable energy Qui-Gon had ever encountered, and eleven years of training and refinement had only made it more astonishing.  He didn’t just shine in the Force—he _burned._

“You’re awake!” Anakin said.

That was such an inane statement, Qui-Gon couldn’t bring himself to dignify it with a response.  Or maybe it was just because his throat was so sore....  Either way, he kept his peace, but started to try to sit up.  He had never been a model patient, after all.

Anakin probably shouldn’t have abetted this act, but his nature was both helpful and impulsive, and when the opportunity to be impulsively helpful presented itself, he couldn’t resist.  He slid a hand behind Qui-Gon’s back and supported him in his struggle.  “Obi-Wan’s going to be so mad,” the young man chattered as he did so.  “I think this is the first time he’s left the room in three days, and he only went because I told him he smelled like a bantha’s _howdunga_ and he better go clean himself up before Vokara brings a hose in here.”

Qui-Gon appreciated this monologue because it gave him several key pieces of information—namely, that Obi-Wan was alive and well; that they were obviously in a place of safety; and that it had probably been somewhere in the neighborhood of three days.  But he would be even more appreciative of some more concrete facts, so he worked past the ache in his throat (drawing on the Force as he did, and oh, how wonderful it was to be able to do that!) and croaked, “Where are we?”

“At the Temple,” said Anakin, helping Qui-Gon settle into a seat and beginning to arrange the two pillows around him, meager though they were.  He couldn’t seem to keep his hands still.  “Halls of Healing—but I guess you could guess that.”

Qui-Gon nodded, though not too vigorously—his head was screaming at him.

Anakin gave the pillows a final pat and stilled at last.  “I...”  He wasn’t meeting Qui-Gon’s eyes, and seemed hesitant.  “I’m sorry for doubting you, before.”

Qui-Gon tried to protest, but Anakin continued before he could make his voice cooperate.

“It’s just—it’s been a difficult time, you know, with the war, and... Well, actually, maybe you don’t know about the war, I don’t know what those _wermos_ told you before we came.  But we’ve seen a lot of trouble and if you think you’re safe, you’re probably not, and if you think things are good, they probably aren’t.  So... yeah, sorry.”

Reaching out, Qui-Gon took hold of Anakin’s hand.  “You have nothing to apologize for,” said Qui-Gon.  His voice was rough but serviceable.

Anakin met his eyes at last, and after a long moment, accepted this pronouncement with a sharp nod.  Abruptly, though, he seemed to come to a realization:  “I should really call a Healer.”  He pulled away and started for the hall.

Qui-Gon watched him leave.  For a moment he considered trying to stand, but just one attempt to twitch a muscle disabused him of that idea.  Instead, much like he had when he had previously awakened, he settled into meditation.  Unlike before, though, the Force was at his fingertips—surrounding him, binding him to the world around him.  He slipped into a light trance effortlessly.

In communion with the Force, it was easy to sense Anakin’s presence only a short distance away; his very being shone with that incredibly bright light.  Anakin’s aura was so overwhelming, it took a moment to become aware of anything else.  But soon Qui-Gon settled into further into his meditation and he began to sense the bustling medical ward that surrounded his room.  There were Healers, glowing with purpose and determination; patients, some conscious and easy to sense, others sleeping or comatose; and Jedi, Jedi everywhere.  And then—yes, he felt the warm, fiercely Light presence of his Padawan.  He could have continued to roam without direction in his meditation, feeling the furthest reaches of the Temple, or looking for other familiar signatures, but he didn’t.  Instead he settled into contemplation of that one particular signature.

Obi-Wan’s presence was unmistakeable; he had spent twelve years attuning himself to it, after all.  But as Qui-Gon sank further into the Force and focused, he felt the changes acutely.  His Padawan’s presence was... larger, somehow.  Deeper.

Distance, like size, had no meaning in the Force, but after a while, Qui-Gon became aware that the presence that had so securely grabbed his attention had drawn near.  He blinked his eyes open to see Obi-Wan standing just inside the door holding a steaming mug of tea.

Unlike every previous observer, Obi-Wan did not open by remarking on his consciousness.  “How do you feel?” he said instead.  He stood casually, appearing perfectly at ease, but his gaze was sharp and unwavering.

Qui-Gon let a small smile creep onto his face.  “Alive,” he replied.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered down momentarily, and then he smiled in return (albeit perhaps a little strained).  He sipped his tea.

Qui-Gon had been Obi-Wan’s master for twelve years.  He knew him as he had known almost no one else in his entire life.  With such a familiar presence, sometimes silence was preferable when words were inadequate.  He reached automatically for their bond—

—and found it in tatters.

His mind reeled back, and even his body flinched.  Now that he had tried to reach it, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noticed it before.  It felt like the bond had been ripped out by its roots, leaving behind a hole that was not just gaping but ravaged.  The edges felt dulled, though—like it had been this way for a long time...

“What happened to our bond?” he asked.  His voice sounded much quieter and more haggard than he had intended.

Obi-Wan definitely looked down now, staring at his mug and gripping it with both hands, soaking in its warmth.

“You died,” he said stoically.  He looked back up abruptly, meeting Qui-Gon’s eyes.  “Well, we all thought you did, anyway.  Your dead weight in my arms was fairly convincing.”

Qui-Gon found himself momentarily speechless.  He felt sick to his stomach.

There was a bustling movement behind Obi-Wan and seconds later a Healer entered, Anakin just steps behind.

“Master Jinn!  You’re awake!” said the Healer.  She was unfamiliar to Qui-Gon, but she had the same business-like, stern, kind countenance that all Healers seemed to learn in their apprenticeships.  She strode immediately to the bed.  “Let’s just see how you’re faring, then.”

As she started to fuss with the equipment around his bed, taking his readings—temperature, blood pressure, anything she could dream up to make him uncomfortable—he found his eyes and his attention drifting.  He could feel exhaustion starting to settle in, even though he could only have been awake for twenty minutes or so.  Anakin and Obi-Wan were still near the door, speaking in undertones to one another.

“Drifting off, are we?” said the Healer, noticing his absent gaze on the two younger Jedi.  “Let’s lie you back down, shall we?”

Qui-Gon considered protesting, but in all honesty, he did feel ready to slip into blissful rest at any moment.  The Healer beckoned toward the other Jedi, and Anakin sprang eagerly across the room to help; the two of them eased Qui-Gon down and settled him into a reclined position.  Anakin busied himself rearranging the pillows again.  Qui-Gon fought to keep his eyes open.

“You must let yourself sleep,” said the Healer gently.  “Your body has been through a great deal of trauma, and you need time and rest to recover.”

“Of course,” Qui-Gon tried to say, but his voice seemed to have reached its limit.

His eyes closed briefly, and when he pried them open again, the Healer was gone; Anakin gave the pillows a last pat and began to draw away, too.  Qui-Gon managed to fling his hand out and grasp Anakin’s wrist.  Anakin startled slightly, but he turned back and took Qui-Gon’s hand.

Like before, he only realized he had closed his eyes again when he pried them open.  Anakin had summoned a chair and sat down close beside his bed.

Obi-Wan was watching the two of them from the door.  He had a peculiar glint in his eye.

Qui-Gon’s eyelids fluttered wearily, but he couldn’t let himself sleep yet—there was something he needed to do, if only he could remember what.

_Oh, yes._

He held his other hand out.

Obi-Wan looked at it.  His jaw set slightly.

Qui-Gon could feel sleep creeping closer, but he stubbornly kept his hand extended, even if it trembled slightly.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly.  He nodded sharply to himself.  And then he crossed the room in three quick steps and took Qui-Gon’s hand.

Their bond was ravaged, gaping open.  But one tiny tendril sprang from the edges of the gash in Qui-Gon’s mind and floated gently toward his Padawan.

One tiny strand drifted from the lesion in Obi-Wan’s mind toward Qui-Gon.

The two joined together to form a single, silver thread.

It was not what it used to be.  The wound was not healed.  But perhaps, Qui-Gon hoped, it could be.

The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the sterile white ceiling.

The last thing he heard before he fell asleep was the beeping of medical machines.

The last thing he felt before he fell asleep was the press of his Padawan’s and grand-Padawan’s hands.

He was content.

**Author's Note:**

> I was just trying to write a “Qui-Gon sees grown-up Obi-Wan and Anakin” fic, which is a trope I find absolutely fascinating and compelling and ADORE reading (please give me all your recs), and then I accidentally made attempts at, like, pretension. Whoops.  
> A couple things that might bear explaining, but didn’t really fit in the body of the fic without breaking the narrative flow:  
> Qui-Gon was put in a healing trance by Sidious, who managed to arrive on Naboo earlier than in the movie. Sidious broke his bond with Obi-Wan, so it would appear that he had died, and... uh... replaced his “body” with a replica of some kind. Yeah. I’m going with that.  
> Sidious also rescued Maul at the same time; however, he judged him harshly for his failure, so Maul is no longer his main apprentice. Dooku, etc., happened as in canon.  
> And then, after Qui-Gon would have come out of his healing trance, he was kept under via medical means. That’s why the medical droid freaks out – because it’s never seen Qui-Gon awake before, and he’s been its only patient for eleven years.  
> The Genavian Convention is me assuming that a galaxy far, far away would have some form of Geneva Convention, and naming it unimaginatively, both because I was feeling a lack of imagination, and because I wanted the reference to be very recognizable to the readers. I looked on Wookieepedia but I didn’t see anything truly equivalent, so I made one up for the sake of two random throwaway lines.  
> Qui-Gon is OOC, I think, but I did that because of how out-of-it he is. He can’t reach the Force, and he’s been in a coma for eleven years, and I think he can be forgiven for being a little emotional.  
> Anakin gets very talkative and uses some Huttese words toward the end because I feel like seeing Qui-Gon (when he knows it’s really Qui-Gon) brings him back to his nine-year-old self.  
> Howdunga: burp  
> Wermos: idiots  
> If you’re wondering about any other weirdness, please ask. I really did make conscious choices about a lot of wordings and things, which I would be happy to blather about. And if the weirdness you point out was unintentional, I’d be glad to think about it and maybe change it!


End file.
